


A Way with Words

by Eva



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Deaf Character, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-10
Updated: 2012-09-10
Packaged: 2017-11-13 23:27:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/508917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eva/pseuds/Eva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After an accident leaves Greg deaf, life goes on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Way with Words

His teacher was a tiny Thai woman with a bright smile and freckles over the bridge of her nose.  Greg had always had a thing for freckles; half the reason he had fallen so hard for Julie, before they had even spoken, had been the scattering of freckles over her cheeks.

Mani, she taught him, first spelling it out on paper and then signing.  Her name was Mani.  He could remember what that would sound like, in his own voice; he practiced thinking it in other voices.

Sally texted him, rapidfire, these days.  She sat herself down in his office and texted, her face twisted into expressive grimaces, and Greg laughed, surprising her with the sound of it.  He remembered how to speak, he told her, though he couldn’t hear it.  He could feel his larynx vibrating, knew he was making sounds.  He spoke to his team, received their answers in texts.  
He’d even come along a bit with lip-reading, somehow, and had surprised the hell out of Sherlock and Anderson by interrupting one of their quarrels.  It was nice, he thought, that he didn’t have to hear it.

But Sherlock had more than a passing knowledge of BSL, and as Greg improved, he realised that a lot of Sherlock’s gestures were words, phrases, and finally sentences.  They hadn’t always been, but as Greg began to pick them up, Sherlock spoke more and more often in sign language, making Greg laugh at the most inappropriate moments, usually while a conversation was happening somewhere behind his back.

It was three months into his thrice-weekly lessons with Mani at his local library that Mycroft Holmes showed up.  A nod, a faint smile, and then Mycroft was signing as easily as you please, holding a conversation with Mani for a moment that Greg could barely understand—honestly, he missed most of it.  And then Mani was waving goodbye, leaving the two men behind.

You have a good teacher, Mycroft signed carefully, and Greg smiled.

“She’s great,” he said.

Do you have time for a chat?

“A bit,” Greg said, and hoisted the strap of his bag higher on his shoulder.  He liked to watch the way people signed; Mani’s signs were light and easy, Sherlock’s quick and sharp.  Mycroft’s, he found quickly, were pure elegance, measured and graceful, articulate but hardly expressive.

Greg’s signs were still a bit blocky and difficult; he was willing to practice with Mani, but with anyone else he preferred to use his voice.  Mycroft undercut that by telling him stories, anecdotes about the Holmes’ childhoods and gossip about the Crown, and refusing to elaborate unless Greg asked him in sign—citing a need for some secrecy.  His fluency developed, though he was never so light or so graceful; Mycroft told him his signs were strong.

They were chatting late one night, Greg revealing in sign—not speaking, not this—that Julie, his ex, had wanted to take him to dinner, to say she was sorry about the accident.  Greg hadn’t accepted, couldn’t imagine accepting, and still, honestly, couldn’t believe that she had actually asked.

Would you come to dinner with me, Mycroft asked him, and the slow, graceful signing revealed the hesitation that his expression, serene as ever, did not.

They had, between them, each cherished a quiet sort of... Greg wouldn’t really call it appreciation, because it had never been quite so blatant. Awareness, maybe. Mycroft making polite, persuasive demands on Greg’s time and resources, which were never in abundance, and Greg silently acquiescing, allow the debt to grow deeper, never dreaming of calling it in.

Greg had lowered his eyes and was staring to the right, his whole body buzzing with that awareness. It should have been strange, the invitation, made between two men in their forties, and Greg not two years’ divorced. It wasn’t.

Where someone might once have coughed gently to get his attention, Mycroft now reached across the small space between them, his hand resting gently on Greg’s knee for a moment. Greg looked at him, cheeks warm and lips parted, and saw Mycroft’s intent to apologise fade away.

Yes, Greg signed, smiling.


End file.
